


Wishful Thinking

by FangQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Auror/Prisoner, Canon Divergent, Closet Sex, HP: EWE, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Magical restraints, Post-War Trials, Present Tense, Quickies, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 00:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11219739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangQueen/pseuds/FangQueen
Summary: They don't kiss. Weasley's hand on his bicep is firm, strong, the only thing about this damn day keeping Draco on his feet. There's no lingering touches or flirtatious glances. This isn'tlove. This is one thing, and one thing only--and when that's done, they go their separate ways.





	Wishful Thinking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).



> Written for Round 2 of [(Don't Get Your) Wand in a Knot](http://wand-in-a-knot.livejournal.com/29839.html)\--a 24 hour HP porn tag challenge on LJ--for the prompt "wishful thinking."
> 
> First and foremost, many thanks to writcraft for the prompt! I didn't go into this round as prepared as I did the last, but I'm still happy with how this turned out. I don't exactly know where my head went with it, but…*shrugs* It was supposed to just be porny, as per the perimeters of this fest, but what can I say. So here, have a helping of angst with your smut, haha.

Draco wishes that Weasley would let them do it without keeping his wrists bound, just once. He says they can't risk it. That if someone were to walk in on them, it would be bad enough as it is--but for them to see that he's allowed his charge that kind of freedom, well...that would get them slapped with more than just a fraternization citation. Draco doesn't exactly _disagree_ , but…

He braces himself with both hands, a spell preventing them from separating. Weasley takes care of hiking up his drab, gray robes and pulling down his pants. The sound of the zipper coming undone on the other's trousers has Draco nearly salivating, and he hates himself for it.

A charm makes Draco slick and open in an instant, a sensation that forces him to bite back a moan. It's one performed by _Weasley_ , of course, as the blonde hasn't been permitted a wand for months. It's not his favorite; he prefers when they take their time. He knows Weasley does, too, even if he won't admit it. Unfortunately, they don't have that luxury today. He'd been about to ask if they had time, but the way the redhead had shoved him into this broom closet and up against the wall had had him _aching_ for it. Neither of them was going to back down, even if they only had a handful of minutes together. It had been days since the last time, and they hungered for each other like men starved.

Today is _different_ , however. They both know that, and the air in the already confined space is heavy with it. Today's the day the council will make their final decision. A lifetime in Azkaban is on the line. Draco wants to think that they won't do it; his crimes, although still repugnant, are not such that a sentence of that magnitude would seem fair. They granted Greg five years' house arrest just last week--reduced to three, if he straightens himself out, gets a good job and follows protocol. But leniency doesn't come easy for Death Eaters these days, not even the young ones. And especially not for one who spent a year plotting to kill one of the most revered wizards on the other side, Draco thinks with a sickening flip of his stomach.

He's scared. If they don't do it, he'll be allowed to go home for the first time in nearly a year, as soon as the session is called to a close. But there's a good chance they _will_ do it, and if they do...He can't. He _can't_ go back there again. Not even for one more night. The dementors may be gone, but their imprint on those old, stone walls remains.

Weasley pauses, his calloused hands squeezing Draco's hips, and that's when he realizes he's said that out loud. Shit. He didn't want him to know that. He didn't want to talk about it. He wishes that Weasley would forget the whole thing and get on with it, but then:

"I know." The redhead's voice isn't soft or tender or any other word one would use to describe something that's meant to be comforting. His thumbs trace the line between Draco's cheeks, pulling them apart.

"I-I just--"

"You'll find a way out of it. You always do."

It's an old insult, one Weasley has thoroughly enjoyed throwing in his face for some time: that with his money and status, Draco can make any problem simply go away in the amount of time it takes to snap his fingers. Although, it doesn't hit with quite the same force as usual. Because Weasley knows--they both do--that he might _not_ find a way out this time. Fear boils in his gut, even as his treacherous prick throbs with want. Then he feels Weasley's thick cock slip inside him, and there's a few blissful moments where he forgets.

His thrusts are rough, determined. They don't have much time. One might think they don't need it, anyway, from the way they're both already panting. Draco presses back against him, arching until it's just right. For a time, the only thing he can focus on is the sound of their breathing. It rings loud in his ears, here in the dark, secluded from the rest of the world. Their pace quickens, and his knees almost buckle. He's already close. He was close when Weasley picked him up from the jail that morning.

He flattens his forehead against the wall, shifting his combined arms down with the intention of rubbing himself off, but a freckled hand bats them away and takes ahold of him instead. Weasley runs his palm across the sticky head of Draco's cock, and it's almost as if this is something else entirely. It's times like these that he likes to pretend it is. Then he remembers that it's _not_ \--remembers where they are, and why. Remembers that they're both merely taking pleasure where they can get it. Angry tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall.

“I hate you so much, Weasley. I hate you, I hate you-- _fuck_ , I’m gonna come...”

Weasley rams into his prostate the same moment that his hand makes a forceful upward stroke on Draco's cock: a surefire way to get him off quick, and he knows it. Another hand comes around, this time to cover his mouth, to help him keep his voice down. He thinks his stifled moans are thanks enough. Before long, he's making good on his claim; Weasley's hand milks him for all he's worth, and he almost bites the palm pressed against his lips in an attempt to stop himself from crying out. The redhead follows him with a grunt, the shaking in his thighs as he empties himself into Draco the only thing that really gives away how much he enjoys it.

Weasley casts cleaning spells over them both, and they fix their clothes. As soon as the coast is clear, they slip seamlessly back into the routine: a guard and his prisoner, making their way to the courtroom. They don't kiss. Weasley's hand on his bicep is firm, strong, the only thing about this damn day keeping Draco on his feet. There's no lingering touches or flirtatious glances. This isn't _love_. This is one thing, and one thing only--and when that's done, they go their separate ways.

Down the hall, in the lobby outside the Wizengamot's chambers, Weasley passes him off to another Auror, who escorts him to the side door to wait. Draco's seen this one a few times now, but can't remember her name. He can't think of _anything_ , really, but the pounding of his heart, the blood rushing in his ears. He tries to distract himself with recalling what he'd just been doing, minutes ago, but can't. At some point, the door opens, he's being ushered inside the courtroom, and he thinks in a second fleeting, blind panic that he might be sick.

The witch who's representing him is seated at their usual table. She's pretty, curvy, stylish yet unique. Her smile is always genuine, which Draco appreciates. At no point has he ever felt that she judges him, and that's a rarity. The Auror deposits him in the chair beside her, and he feels the calming aura she always brings wash over him, but it isn't enough today. Her hand is on his shoulder, and she's saying something encouraging, but he can't hear it. His eyes conduct an anxious scan of the room. He can see the place is packed; Death Eater trials have become the newest form of entertainment. Then he's immediately drawn to a flash of ginger hair against the far wall.

Draco knew they'd asked him to testify on his behalf. Weasley probably didn't think he knew that, but he did--had heard it from his very mouth, in fact, when they'd been transferring him back to Azkaban once, and he and Potter had probably thought he wasn't listening as they mumbled to each other. He'd also heard that he'd declined. _Declined_. The very idea made him see red. Potter had done it, and even Granger, much to his surprise. They'd had relatively pleasant things to say about him, too! But not Weasley.

He stands there now, in his clean-pressed Auror uniform--as if their encounter back in the closet hadn't even happened--the other two at his side. He's doing everything he possibly can _not_ to look his way, Draco can see that. His teeth worry his lower lip as he stares blankly up at the empty line of benches in front of them. Then he shifts his gaze, and their eyes lock. Granger whispers something in his ear, but it appears as if he ignores it.

This whole thing had started _because_ he was sent to Azkaban, because Weasley had been assigned to stand guard his first night there, to make sure he transitioned well, or some other such bullshit. Tensions were high, as they'd always been between them. He couldn't even remember, now, _why_ he'd done it--just that getting down on his knees and sucking Weasley off through the bars of his cell had given him the first few minutes of peace he'd had in a long time. He doesn't like to remember that he's always found the man attractive. He figures Weasley doesn't like to think about it, either.

If this all ended right now...if they ruled him "not guilty" and sent him home, what would they have? He knows the answer. Hell, for all he knows, Weasley could have someone else on the outside. It wasn't like they had all that much now, anyway...

"All rise--"

There's a sudden scraping of chairs, clearing of throats, shuffling of papers, as everyone clambers to their feet. Draco can feel his knees knocking together. The kind smile of his representative keeps him grounded, but his vision is going spotty. For a moment, he wishes he were _anywhere_ but here--even back that in that bloody broom closet, with Weasley's hot breath against the nape of his neck.

The Wizengamot files in, and he finally remembers to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments = <3!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://ohlookagaydraco.tumblr.com/) and [LJ](http://fangqueen.livejournal.com/) as well!


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